


Five Stories Dorian Didn't Want To Hear, Honest (and one he's not telling)

by coveredinfeels



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: M/M, Pre-Relationship, Stupid Sexy Qunari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-11
Updated: 2017-06-11
Packaged: 2018-11-12 23:09:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11172042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/coveredinfeels/pseuds/coveredinfeels
Summary: For some reason, and Dorian is absolutely not at fault here, he keeps finding himself in situations where other people are discussing The Iron Bull's dick. It's like a curse. Or a conspiracy.He is, of course, entirely and utterly disinterested in this topic. No curiosity at all. Definitely not visualising anything.





	Five Stories Dorian Didn't Want To Hear, Honest (and one he's not telling)

Haven is... well. It certainly has character, in a southern sort of way. Dorian imagines this phrasing in the mouth of his mother, the same way she might describe a distant cousin as _charming enough, in a rural sort of way_.

He cannot imagine what turn of phrase she'd come up with to describe The Iron Bull. Why of course, let there be a Qunari. A self-admitted Qunari _spy_. A self-admitted Qunari spy who is far larger and far more shirtless than any one man has any right to be, in Dorian's opinion.

The eyepatch is overdoing it, really.

He's suspicious of Dorian, of course. Pretty much everyone is. Not in any particularly dramatic way; that might at least be entertaining. He has a good stock of witty rejoinders just waiting for a fitting opponent, but no such luck as yet. No, it's merely the dreary low-level suspicion of southerners, frightened of that which they are incapable of understanding, including simple concepts such as the difference between necromancy and blood magic, or mages and Magisters, or proper bathing versus just sitting around in your own stink hoping it eventually kills off the fleas.

The Iron Bull hasn't said anything, hasn't done anything to suggest it, but Dorian gets the feeling he's being observed, nonetheless. Perhaps he should be worried about becoming the target of a Qunari spy, but for some reason he mostly finds this incredibly annoying. In the spirit of retaliation, he finds a seat near the Chargers when they're drinking one night, and listens in.

The Herald of Andraste seems set on having him work with their motley collection of associates, after all; he might as well know what he's getting into.

While he nurses his terrible ale, he learns a number of things. He learns that The Iron Bull's second in command is indeed a fellow countryman, and quite good at arm-wrestling. That the Chargers claim to have dispatched just about every unusual beast to be located in Thedas at large, save only perhaps a dragon. That, in case he needed reminding, one should probably not anger anybody who goes by the name of Skinner, and that their 'archer' isn't fooling anybody. Also, that he should apparently not complain about the shirtlessness of their commander; he should, judging by the stories, be just happy he's wearing clothing at all.

“Remember Baron whathisface?” a dwarf calls loudly, waving a tankard of something. “With the boar?”

“Kept it like a pet.” the aptly-named Stitches responds. “He wanted us around just as a bit of visible muscle, thought his neighbour was trying to break into his cheese-cellar or something. In the middle of the night there's this scream, right? Chief's not even supposed to be on watch, but he busts out of his room to investigate anyway.”

He pauses dramatically. It's not very subtle. Various members of their audience lean in, even though like Dorian if they've been sitting here the whole time they've already heard three variants on this tale and where this is going is more obvious than the way The Iron Bull is flirting with that one redhead. He might as well go get a second ale, to wash the taste of the first out of his mouth.

No sooner that he has received said dubious beverage, then he hears Stitches yell something that ends with “... _stark naked_.” to a round of cheers.

“You are all,” Dorian says, to nobody in particular, “far too easily impressed.”

* * *

“I heard,” says one of the endless number of Chantry sisters gathered at the neighbouring table, “that qunari are different. You know. _Down there_.”

It is far too early for this. Dorian pokes at his porridge, pretending to find something of deep interest in its depths. Perhaps, _how do you manage to create new levels of blandness each day with the same set of ingredients?_.

“Maisie,” the next woman along declares, “you really ought to stop reading those novels and get yourself some hands-on experience.”

“With her little hands,” another adds, “she'd probably want some assistance. I'll gladly volunteer.”

He doesn't admit this often, but clearly, Dorian was wrong. It is not far too early for this, in that there is no time at all during which Dorian would enjoy eating breakfast while listening to Chantry sisters discuss the in-and-outs, pun absolutely not intended, of qunari genitalia. 

“ _You_ were off with that big 'un last week, weren't you?” yet another chimes in. “How large of a blessing _did_ the Maker bestow upon him, exactly?”

“Oh, about... _so_.”

Somebody whistles low. Dorian resolutely does _not_ look to see exactly how far apart she has her hands right now, because he is definitely not curious at all.

* * *

The Chargers don't ever seem to run out of, or tire, of stories where Bull gets naked, not that the man himself makes much of an effort to discourage them. They claim to have something called No Pants Friday, although from the stories, it's more like _No Pants Whenever The Iron Bull Feels Like It_.

They all starts to blend together after a while, an endless sea of naked qunari stories complete with hand-gestures that he is going to presume are vastly exaggerated.

“Wait, wasn't the thing with the assassin and the donkey in Antiva?” somebody asks.

“That was a mule.” Dorian mutters at his ale.

On queue, Bull interjects with “Nah, in Antiva it was a mule.”

Everyone cheers.

 _Far_ too easily impressed.

* * *

The rather tousled redhead emerging from Bull's rooms appears to be that charming Templar Dorian flirts with sometimes. “Morning.” he says cheerfully. “Shift change, is it?”

It takes Dorian a moment to realise this is actually innuendo, and it is directed at him, and to figure out _why_. “Absolutely _not_.”

“Come now, there's plenty to go around.” says the Templar, whose name Dorian really can't remember right now. Ser Has-No-Taste, perhaps. “Pretty sure I didn't completely tire him out, feel free to have a go.”

“I am here,” Dorian informs him, “because the Inquisitor has decided that both of our presences are required at the charmingly named Fallow Mire, and for no other reason.”

“Ugh, long ride, that.” the Templar says. “I guess I see your point. You want to talk about what you're missing, though, buy me a drink sometime? When nobody's been tiring _me_ out, that is.”

Dorian does take him up on that, on the return from the Fallow Mire. Because he looks cute when he's all rumpled, not because he has any interest in any _stories_ he might want to tell. The Templar's name is Rogan, as it turns out, and despite his previous lapse in taste, he makes a surprisingly agreeable drinking buddy, when he can be distracted from what is apparently his new favourite topic of conversation.

“You can't tell me you're not at least a _little_ curious,” he says, making an entirely unsubtle motion towards the location where The Iron Bull is currently drinking.

“I can. I am doing it right now. This is me, telling you that I am not at all curious and if you continue to talk about The Iron Bull's penis I am going to stop buying you drinks.” Dorian tells him.

“Fine, fine.” Rogan says, sidling closer. “Can I talk about his tongue, though--”

“Please stop.”

“--because, _also_ long, thick, and responsible for one of the best orgasms of my life.” Rogan concludes.

Far too vivid an image there. “Surely there is something _else_ we could be talking about?” Dorian asks the open air. Perhaps the Maker will seem fit to intervene, because he's beginning to suspect Rogan is a lost cause.

Rogan leans even closer. “Is it true there's lots of weird sex magic in Tevinter?”

He sounds hopeful, more than anything. Perhaps not as much of a lost cause as Dorian might have thought. “Would you like a demonstration?”

* * *

A despair demon gets too close to the Inquisitor, and The Iron Bull is there to take the blow, before Dorian and Sera pepper it with fire and arrows. Physically, he's not badly off, but he seems unsettled, afterwards, somehow. Dorian's not sure he could specify what it is that makes him think that. Instinct, perhaps. Far too much time spent around The Iron Bull, clearly.

Said ridiculously large spy spends their time back at camp pretending nothing is wrong. When the Inquisitor asks after him, he shrugs it off. “No worries, Boss. I've had much worse. This one time, in Val Royeaux, I was assigned as bodyguard to this woman. Mask designer. Eight cats.”

Even the introduction sounds forced. Dorian doesn't know if he can stand listening to Bull grind through the whole of this story just to try and distract the Inquisitor from the fact that _I've had much worse_ doesn't mean that much from a man missing chunks of his hand and an entire eye. “I believe I've heard this one.” he announces. “Assassin, chair, out the balcony, back in through a window, into the room with all the cats, also you were naked the entire time because _apparently_ this story wasn't ridiculous enough already.”

“You've been paying attention.” Bull says.

Well, he's not the only one, and the scrutiny he's getting from Bull at the moment is a little uncomfortable, to be honest. “There is only one decent place to drink in Skyhold, and you _will_ insist on acting out pretty much every ridiculous stereotype about Qunari ever found in the propaganda of my homeland, so...”

He means it as deflection, but it comes out sounding too true. If you were a spy, and you wanted people to not look too closely--

“You mean propaganda, or _pornography_?” Bull says. He even attempts a wink.

“I might admit to there being some overlap in the categories.” Dorian replies immediately, even though the question is an obvious attempt at a distraction.

The smile he gets in return is improbably charming, ugh.

* * *

Of course, Dorian thinks distantly, this would have to happen eventually. All this time out on the field, sharing tents, close spaces, and so on, it would be very difficult to never so much as catch a _glimpse_.

This is not a glimpse. This is The Iron Bull, up to his thighs in the river, cock in hand and not a care in the world, apparently.

It is possible he owes Rogan a drink, and an apology for calling him a liar, but first he has to deal with the problem that has arisen-- ugh, scratch that, the problem at hand-- no, no good either, Rogan really wasn't exaggerating at _all_...

“Room in the river for two.” Bull calls.

“Absolutely not interested.” Dorian returns, which is a hundred percent true, and not just because he does not find cold water and the very real possibility of leeches conducive to activities of mutual enjoyment. “Not in your wildest dreams.”

“Qunari don't dream,” Bull answers, “and you're still _looking_.”

The worst part is he has to retreat at this point, giving Bull the final word. Not that he was looking. Well, he had his eyes open and his face in that direction, yes, so in a very literal reading of the situation, he was looking. But he wasn't _looking_ , as in significant emphasis _looking_ looking.

Or at least, he's never going to admit to it.


End file.
